The Family Regatta

Jac and Alyssa, who have remained in the cockpit for most of the crossing from Blaine, dash forward to stand on the furled jib. They clutch the headstay and loudly proclaim their intent to guide me to 'the best place' to anchor the boat. To punctuate her proclamation, Jac lunges at the windlass and yells, 'I know how to let the chain out!' I stop her charge with a horrified croak, which is all I can muster, my throat suddenly constricted by the prospect of the anchor dropping right here, between the channel markers at the entrance to Shallow Bay. That would demonstrate incompetence beyond the norm to the spectators already on their moorings. Indeed, it would be a highlight of their afternoon. I call the girls aft and bid them sit.

Rachel pats my arm. 'Honey,' she says quietly, 'you're steering straight for an anchored sailboat.'

'I see it,' I assure her. And I do, now that she has brought it to my attention. Altering our course, I ask her to take the tiller. As I go forward, the girls leap to their feet as if propelled by springs in their backsides. They race ahead of me to the windlass. I order them back to the cockpit. They pout melodramatically and move behind me, out of my field of vision. I take it for granted that they've gone all the way back to the cockpit but they haven't: they just sit down upon the deck behind me. Hence, I step backward and on Alyssa's hand as I turn to give Rachel instructions for the helm. In her explosion of wailing, my orders to the helm are never completed. Rachel wanders us aimlessly through the moored boats while I try to convince Alyssa that I did not purposefully attempt to crush her hand.

Once the wailing has stopped and the girls are safely back in the cockpit, I point out to Rachel where it is that I want to drop the anchor. 'No, Papa. That's not the best place!' Jac prompts.

'Be quiet!' I bark.

We make our approach in unobtrusive silence, except for the clunking and banging that is still going on beneath the deck. 'All stop,' I call over my shoulder. Rachel tugs the gear lever into neutral but remonstrates that she cannot hear me if I do not turn fully around to speak to her.

We coast to the point at which I wish to let fall the anchor. I obligingly turn fully around and say loudly, 'Back one third!' Just as I open my mouth, however, the boys launch up through the companionway like Polaris missiles to announce that they can find none of their gear, that it has all been stolen, probably while it was in the dock carts when we were loading. This, of course, obliterates my command. It also produces for my helmsman the necessity of assuring the boys that their stuff is safely stowed under the cockpit hatches. Furthermore, she elaborates, considering what they have packed and the way they have packed it, it is quite unlikely that anyone would selectively steal their gear.

Having satisfied the boys' angst, Rachel recalls that I said something to her. 'What did you say?' she asks intently.

'I said, "All back one third." I wanted to stop the boat.'

Dutifully, she puts the boat in reverse and accelerates to 1,000 rpm. We lose all headway.

'Well,' I add, looking around us, 'I didn't want to stop here. I wanted to stop back there.'

Still in reverse, we begin to make sternway. The two skiffs we are towing bang against the transom. The wind catches our bow and we box off our heading. Rachel looks wildly about.

'Ahead one third,' I offer.

'I don't know where you want me to go!' she expostulates, putting the boat ahead. 'I hate anchoring!'

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